


Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee

by Gwerfel



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24078919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: During 'First Shot a Winner, Lads', Mr Gibson takes the time to reaffirm his devotion to Mr Hickey.Basically - gay rat honeymoon.
Relationships: William Gibson/Cornelius Hickey
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you thank you to Kt_fairy for proof reading, sense checking and extremely helpful suggestions!

Mr Blanky is going to lose his leg, and Billy will do anything not to have to listen to it happen. The ship is in chaos - Terror has been standing so still and so silent for weeks now, the few remaining men rattling about inside like pennies in a tin can, and the sudden shock of activity is deafening, it makes Billy wince and his head spin.

He takes his chance while the marines are still climbing back down through the hatch, the sharp smell of snow and panic cutting through the grim air. Orders are shouted and boots pound the deck, and in this confusion no one will miss either of them; Gibson feels quite certain that no one will ask for them tonight, not now. He still needs a lure, and fortunately Mr Blanky provided one before he succumbed to this most recent tragedy. Cornelius is loathe to excuse himself from the centre of the furor, but he cannot resist the promise of sensitive information. 

The information Gibson has isn’t bait, he tells himself as he steals through the ship, Hickey’s footsteps falling lightly behind him - bait implies a trap, and Gibson is only fulfilling a promise. As they reach the hatch down to the orlop he touches the ring on his smallest finger. It’s still cold, he only slipped it on a moment ago. Lieutenant Irving - who makes thorough and regular inspections of the stewards and is now more intimate with Billy Gibson’s hands than anyone else he has ever known - abhors jewelry, and will only ask where he found it. The cut glass flashes once in the last of the lamplight as Billy grips the rungs of the ladder to swing himself down. 

He reaches the bottom and allows a moment for his eyes to adjust to the thick darkness while Cornelius follows him down. 

“Here?” Hickey asks, once they both have both feet on the deck. He tilts his head, his face is open and curious, which signifies a pleasant mood.

“Further down,” Billy shakes his head, and turns towards the hatch into the hold before Cornelius can pin him with his gaze and convince him to spill everything right here and now. They pass no one, all of the noise is happening above them, so it might be perfectly safe, but there have always been limits to the risks Billy will take.

Discretion is the hallmark of good stewardship, and Gibson has a particular talent for it. He is experienced with the ebb and flow of a ship, he has a gift for finding secluded places and hidden nooks where they will not be disturbed. Most of the time, at least, he thinks guiltily - but surely any man might be forgiven for a single miscalculation. He fingers the ring again, rubbing the cold metal with the pad of his thumb.

Cornelius must realise where they are going, as surely as he must recall the last time he and Billy were in the hold together. As they progress towards the final hatch, Billy is sure he can feel Hickey’s grinning eyes at his back.

It occurs to Gibson that in the interlude between their last coupling and this one that Hickey may have used their old places on his own business. He is never without a friend, even after the flogging; Billy has been watching. If he asks now, he knows he will hear the truth, so he doesn’t ask. 

In the hold the creaking of the ice and the deep insistent thrum of the storm outside is so loud it will cover up any screaming. 

“Will you tell me now, Billy?” Cornelius asks as he steps free of the last ladder and turns to look at him, carefully smoothing down his coat as he does. “Or are you worried Mr Hornby will hear us?”

He jerks his head in the direction of the dead room, and Gibson flinches, shaking his head again. 

“No, this should be… we won’t be heard here.”

“Out with it, then.” Cornelius steps up to him smartly. 

And so Billy tells him, without really knowing what he is telling him, everything he heard earlier this evening. He’d been in the pantry to fetch something when they brought Lady Silence into the great cabin. The walls are thin, that is not Billy’s fault. The captain was drunk, a permanent state these days, but Billy could hear the danger in his slurred voice; shrill and mewling, a rage brewing just beneath the surface, so he had good reason to stay quiet and stay put. Besides, he couldn't have slipped out quietly even if he'd tried to, because then Captain Fitzjames appeared, and tipped the churning tempest over into violence. 

Of course, Cornelius is not interested in the captains’ spat.

" _ A spirit that dresses as an animal _ ," his tongue plays in the corner of his cheek.

Billy salivates, swallows, “that is what they said - Crozier was soused, he always is, but Mr Blanky said it too, and Little, they were all--”

“What do you suppose it means, then?” Cornelius isn’t asking Billy, not really; he is thinking, his eyes are on something else, in the dark corners of the hold. Billy answers, anyway.

“I don’t know. Perhaps nothing.”

“I think it means something,” Hickey’s gaze snaps back to his, pointed chin raised.

“Well then,” Billy says, “I am sure you’re right.”

“Thank you for this, Billy. I knew you would not let me down.”

A silence drops over them - this is irregular, and turns Billy's mouth dry again, for Hickey never allows a pause without some motive for it. 

He is waiting for Billy to make the suggestion, which may be fair enough, considering the great wrong Billy has done him. He ought to have known Cornelius would make him crawl for it.

The ice grinds at the hull, deafening. Billy feels it in his bones, and Hickey’s eyes burn at him. 

“I did not thank you earlier,” he begins haltingly, “for your gift,” he looks down and twists his ring about his finger. Cornelius looks at it too, and says nothing. Billy clears his throat, “I thought perhaps… no one will come searching, not with all that commotion. We might…”

Hickey turns his head slowly, his smile widens. Gibson grows impatient, frustrated by his own inability to articulate this most ardent of requests. He has never needed to ask before; Mr Hickey has always known exactly where Billy's desires lie. “Will you really have me say it?” he snaps. “You know very well.”

Cornelius laughs lightly, shaking his head in great amusement. 

"All right," he says, giving him a brisk look up and down, "but trousers up, we've not much time."

Gibson sighs with surprise and relief, backing against the stacked provision casks as Cornelius advances on him. He slips his narrow white hand down the front of Billy's breeches without preamble or politeness and Billy, god help him, begins to rise at once, the slightest brush of fingertips triggering a surge of desire so sharp it aches in his gut like a wound.

“Mm,” he squeezes his eyes shut, clutching at Hickey’s coat.

“There, now,” his lover soothes.

Cornelius always sets about frigging with an air of shrewd industry he is unable to apply to his work. He is never trembling or coy, his grip is firm and his movements precise. It is the most uncommon sensation Gibson has ever known, the most blissful of distractions, and he does not care if it is in Cornelius’s nature or something taught to him in whatever sunless slum he was dragged up in. 

"Oh,” Billy cannot help sighing, as the hot swelling within overcomes the dreadful chiseling scraping of the ice without. “Oh, oh…” 

Sometimes Cornelius tires of the sounds Billy makes in his throes, and will cover his mouth, but he doesn’t tonight; he is unexpectedly indulgent and even lays a kiss against Billy’s cheek, his whiskers scratching. 

“Cornelius," Billy murmurs fervently, bowing his head to press against Hickey’s shoulder, sweat springing on his neck and his breath coming ragged, "dear, dear..."

Hickey turns his wrist slightly, and the astringent crush of pleasure proves too much - Billy bursts with an ugly convulsion, spilling into his breeches and blinking from the shock of it. The tide of his paroxysm is brief, washing over him fast and drawing quickly back, leaving him shivering and stranded.

"Oh, Billy," Cornelius says against his hair. His fingers release Billy's prick, and he withdraws his hand without much care, wiping it on the inside of Billy's jacket. Thank heaven for small mercies, Billy thinks, for he could have used the leg of his breeches. "Been saving yourself for me, eh?"

"I'm sorry," Billy croaks, cringing at his own pitiful tone. 

"For what?" Cornelius is all smiles, his eyes shining with smug victory. He intended things this way, then. 

Billy catches his breath, leaning slumped against the casks behind him and wiping his eyes and damp temples with the back of his wrist. Cornelius rolls his shoulders and begins to search his pockets for tobacco and paper. The pleasant familiarity of watching him stirs a dormant longing which for once has little to do with his own base desires. 

“What about you?” He asks, still quaking, his soft prick quivering in his clammy underclothes.

Hickey gives a shrug as he begins to roll his cigarette, folding the paper and coaxing it into a cylinder, pinching and rubbing with his deft little fingers. He uses both hands, but Billy has seen him do it with only one, before, in less than a minute. He catches Gibson’s eye as he bobs his head to lick the edge of paper and tamp it down. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

"But I… it is only fair.” 

“Dear heart,” Hickey teases him, reaching up to pat his cheek, “sweet William _. _ Have you any matches on you?”

Cornelius has behaved in this evasive manner before. Hickey will touch him - he’ll fuck him and suck his prick and finger his arse and has visited upon Billy every filthy obscenity he could have imagined - and many he had never even thought to dream up alone. But with his own person, Cornelius is reserved, private and sometimes entirely uninterested. When he chooses to take his enjoyment - and he does, often enough - he will minister to himself, either buggering Billy or using his own hand. He may consent to be frigged, if he can set the pace with his own hips. 

Such impassive composure might lead another man to question Cornelius’s appetite for the act, but Billy knows better. Hickey is always hard for him; his breath always quickens and his brow dampens. He feels arousal and desire like any man, despite his aversion to being handled directly.

It is a peculiar quirk, perhaps, and Billy has never been in a position to pass judgment on private habits. It vexes him now.

“Won’t you let me?” Billy presses, catching the corner of Hickey’s coat, rubbing it softly, “I want to, you have given me something, after all.” He allows the glass in the ring to catch the faint light once more.

Hickey’s eyes narrow; the expression on his face is not one Billy is familiar with. It makes him feel he is being measured; calculated. The howling wind of the storm outside, the clattering of hail begins to encroach once more, invading the warm fog their bodies created. A sudden thunderclap rips through the sky like a boulder crashing down on the deck above, making Billy jump. Something almost imperceptible changes in Hickey's face, and he nods, sliding the completed cigarette neatly into his pocket.

Billy wastes no time, lest Cornelius change his mind, and sinks to his knees in the cold dark. Hickey makes a quiet sound of surprise, but makes no move to halt him as he begins to work the fastenings of his breeches. Billy has never met a man disinclined to take his enjoyment in this way, especially one so cavalier about providing such a service himself. 

Billy frees Cornelius' prick, finding it half hard, and circles it with his hand. He tugs lazily, gently, then when Hickey shifts his hips to improve the angle, Billy closes his mouth over his prick head. Cornelius doesn't make a sound, but holds his breath as Gibson slides his lips purposefully down his length, drawing back up slowly with his tongue.

Beneath his drawers Cornelius smells faintly of soap and sweat from the evening's exertions. His body is warm, warmer than his hands, warmer than anything Billy has been close to for a long time. He hums appreciatively and swallows him again. Cornelius twitches, bending forward to lean an arm against the cask behind Billy. He exhales slowly, settling in as Billy bobs his head with more boldness, applying himself to bringing Hickey to fulfillment as if it is the only thing in the world worth doing well. 

He must listen carefully - Cornelius is never vocal about his bliss, as withholding of it as he is with access to his private parts. Billy has always supposed it is sensible enough, considering the covert nature of their copulation. Still, tonight the storm is still raging over the half empty ship, and if there is some secret to having Hickey voice his pleasure then Billy is determined to unlock it. He twists with his hand and presses his lips tighter, he slurps and gulps and moans, making a perfect whore of himself, his own prick already rising and stiffening in his trousers at the thought.

He grasps Hickey's hip firmly and curls his tongue upwards. Hickey grunts, a strangely small sound. "Do that again," he says, bracing himself against the barrel.

Billy obeys eagerly, feeling Cornelius' cock throb against his tongue, smooth skin growing hot and tight as he pants above him. Billy's own arousal climbs steadily, making him giddy and supplying him with a sudden mindless notion. Flexing his free hand against Hickey's hip, Billy pushes beneath his drawers and moves to grip his buttocks, shocked for a moment when he feels the raised cords of flesh left by the lash. He moves down quickly, caressing the crease above Hickey's thigh and drawing a mumbled groan. 

Billy strokes him lovingly, Hickey shifts again, his breath uneven. Emboldened, Billy ventures further, fingers prying in the way Cornelius has done to him a thousand times before. At once Hickey stiffens, lowers a hand to Gibson's hair and mutters, "don't." 

Gibson retreats, moves his hand back to Cornelius’s hip and doubles his efforts with his tongue until Hickey is holding his breath again, hand still hovering tentatively over Billy's scalp. 

He has a crick in his neck, his tongue begins to ache at its root and his knees light up every bone and lump of gristle with agony, but he perseveres, pressing harder and turning his head back and forth. Hickey suddenly pushes his palm down, flat against the crown of Billy's head. His breath rushes out of him, the muscles in his legs jump and his stiff prick jerks in Billy's mouth, spending hot brackish spunk which Billy swallows compulsively, tightening his grip to prolong Cornelius' shuddering crisis.

When he finally withdraws, sitting back and rubbing his aching neck, Billy is sure his knees are creaking in concert with the ice. He wipes the spittle from his chin carelessly with the sleeve of his coat. Everything will need washing, he hopes there will be time before Irving's inspection tomorrow morning.

Cornelius tidies himself and then offers Billy his hand, hauling him to his feet with surprising strength. 

"Well now, Mr Gibson," he says, eyes crinkling merrily at the corners as he grins up at Billy, who finds himself laughing and looking away bashfully. "Back up, then?" 

"Back up," Billy agrees, trying not to sound sentimental.

Cornelius nods, then turns back towards the ladder. The noise overhead makes itself horribly apparent as they approach the hatch, stamping feet and urgent shouts. The ship will be unsettled for weeks now, Billy knows it; there will be no coming back from this night. Hickey reaches the ladder first, a grey shaft of light striking across his dark blue coat, catching the golden strands of his hair. 

As he is about to climb up, a hand on the rung above him, he turns back to address Billy.

"What was the word they said? The  _ esquie _ word?"

"Ah -  _ tuunbaq?"  _ Billy scratches his head, "I think so."

" _ Tuunbaq _ ," Hickey repeats. His eyes are far away again, his cheeks are flushed. "Well, then."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
